The sadness of waffles drives me to Craigslist. Happens like that sometimes.
Amelia got the house in the divorce. And the TV. And the couch. And the microfleece blanket we used to snuggle under as we watched that TV on that couch in that house. She got almost everything.
I got the waffle iron. And the dog.
I’d say I made out okay.
In hindsight though, I should’ve let her keep the waffle iron, too.
The waffle iron was a wedding gift, and one morning I got the bright idea to surprise my new bride with waffles for breakfast.
Amelia was surprised alright. She was so surprised that when the smoke alarm started bleating and the house filled with acrid smoke produced by the carbon squares that were technically waffles, she almost called 911. Apparently there’s a learning curve to making waffles. Things they don’t tell you in Home Ec.
After that, thanks to Amelia and her firm grasp of the culinary arts, I learned how to make waffles. They became the cornerstone of our marriage, really. Waffles on weekend mornings. Waffles for dinner sometimes. Waffles on our anniversary, even.
You know when you see a couple laughing about something, and you ask what they’re laughing about, and they tell you, but you don’t get it because it’s some cutesy inside thing that only they get? For Amelia and me, waffles were that cutesy inside thing.
I should’ve known things were bad when she started to want pancakes.
I install myself in an apartment that has a wonderful view of an alley where several homeless people shit in the morning. And afternoon. And evening. That’s the apartment’s only redeeming quality.
One morning I’m hunched over the faded linoleum kitchen counter, staring at the brushed chrome surface of the waffle iron. The box of Bisquick sits next to the mixing bowl, which is flanked by milk, eggs, vegetable oil. I have everything I need except the will to make the stupid things.
I regard the iron some more, give up, fill the mixing bowl with Corn Pops, splash in some milk.
Standing over the kitchen counter, I shovel soggy Pops into my mouth, chew slowly. I pick out a few mushy nuggets, feed them to my dog, Bella. Then I pad over to the living room, Bella trailing me.
I plop down on my futon, the only piece of furniture I own. The green mattress is strewn with a blue sheet, an off-white comforter, a flattened pillow. There are sour cream and onion potato chip crumbs scattered about, remnants from the night before. I pick my laptop off the floor, boot it up.
Bella hops up next to me, the patch of white, arrow-shaped fur on her forehead contrasting against the brown. She sniffs at the potato chip crumbs, mewls. I give her a few more Pops. She sucks them down, lays her head in my lap. She’s the only bitch who sticks by me.
The laptop wheezes to life. I check my email, find a message from my buddy, Florist, in my inbox.
The subject is “Gonna try to bang this crazy broad.” All that’s listed in the body is a link to a Craigslist personal ad.
I have another spoonful of Pops, suck in an errant droplet of milk that’s threatening to add itself to the stains on my t-shirt, click the link.
The headline reads, “My pussy is dripping, will you fill it?” The ad says, “I’m a super horny 25-year-old looking for a hung dude to watch me pee and then fuck me in front of an open window. Send pic (full body, dick out) to get one back. Must be able to host.”
Jesus.
To Florist, I write, “Don’t get stabbed.” I send my reply, return to Craigslist.
Florist’s been using Craigslist to hook up with randoms for a while now. The last girl he was with was really into being choked. When I asked Florist if that was weird, he said, “Fuck no, it was awesome!” Before that, it was a girl who loved being fisted. When asked if that was weird, he said, “Fuck no, it was awesome!”
At the time, I was skeeved out by Florist’s debauchery. At the time, though, I was still married. Now, sitting in front of a computer cruising the Casual Encounters listings with nothing but a big-ass bowl of cereal and my dog for company, I get it. Loneliness is like Amelia; it’s a fickle cunt.
I’m clicking on random ads, most of which echo the one Florist sent me. One catches my eye. The headline: “Cute married chick looking for NSA hook-ups.” The ad says, “I’m looking for a regular, NSA, DDF friend with benefits. I’m married so it needs to be super discreet. And please, no questions about personal life. I’m 28, 5’5, 120lbs, red hair, hazel eyes. Send a pic to get a pic.”
Always had a thing for redheads. Amelia’s a redhead.
I hoist the mixing bowl to my lips, guzzle the sugary milk. I belch, look down at Bella. “What do you think, Bell?” I say. “Should I answer?” She yawns. I take that as a yes.
Before I compose my reply, I run through some photos stored on my hard drive. I find a recent one of Amelia and me. We’re smiling like our world isn’t going to violently bisect at any moment. The memory stabs. I shake it off, crop out Amelia, resave the picture.
I go back to my email, bang out a message: I’m interested, I’ll be discreet, blah blah blah. I attach the photo, send it off.
I hear nothing from the redhead, forget all about the ad. When I finally get an email from her, it says more or less what mine said: if you’re interested, let me know. A picture is attached.
I click on the attachment. The photo fills my screen. Her skin is pale, her neck long, her shoulders broad, her breasts small. Her face is round and freckled, a small collection of acne scars on each cheek. She has long, curly, orange-reddish hair.
“Hmm,” I mutter. “Not bad.” I type a reply.
I hear back from her a little later. She says her name is Vera and that she likes the cut of my jib. Tough to tell if she’s making a joke. Probably she is.
We decide to meet at a Holiday Inn Express in northwest Portland in a couple days. I tell her to call the front desk when she gets there, have them transfer the call to my room, at which point I’ll give her the room number. She agrees.
I buy a pay-as-you-go phone from a convenience store.
I figure if this goes well, she might want to hook up again. I’d rather not give her my actual phone number because I use my phone for work.
Florist told me a story after he started up with all this Craigslist stuff. He met a girl on there, gave her his cell phone number. One night he got a call from a number he didn’t recognize. He was half in the bag so he answered with his “sexy voice” and asked the caller if she was fingering herself. “She” was Florist’s boss, Paul. Paul was calling from another phone because his cell phone died, and he needed Florist to fix something on some report. Florist got the heave-ho due to “insufficient performance,” but Florist and I both knew it was because of that phone call. Lesson learned: don’t use a work phone for anything but work.
I show up to the hotel an hour before we’re supposed to meet. I get a room, go up, lie down on the bed.
I turn on the television, flip through the stations idly, switch it off.
Half an hour passes. I have second thoughts.
I use the bathroom, finish, decide this isn’t for me, go to leave. The phone rings. I pick up. A buttery voice says, “Hey, it’s Vera.” I give her the room number.
A few minutes later there’s a knock at the door. I answer.
Vera wears a black down vest over a white long-sleeve shirt. Brown leather boots cover the calves of her tight jeans. I stifle a grin – she’s dressed like Han Solo.
She smiles, sticks out her hand. “Hi. I’m Vera.”
“Lyle,” I say, taking her hand. Her grip is warm and firm, her skin soft.
I stand there, grinning like an idiot.
Her brow raises slightly.
“Oh, sorry,” I say. “Come in.”
Vera crosses the threshold, hitches up a satchel-style purse on her shoulder.
She walks to the foot of the bed, looks at the nightstand. Three condoms sit on top of it.
“Oh, um,” I say. “I didn’t mean to.” I put my hands on my hips. “Shit.”
She moves toward me. I’m pretty sure she’s going to walk right by and out of the room. She stops inches in front of me, kisses me. We move toward the bed.
We undress each other down to our underwear. I have my hands at the waistband of Vera’s panties. She pulls away, goes to the window, closes the shades, plunging the room into near darkness.
She comes back to bed, pulls the sheets aside, slips in. She smiles, reaches under the covers. She pulls out a lacy purple thong, fires it at me like a rubber band. It hits me in the face. She giggles, motions for me to join her.
As I slide in between the sheets, Vera turns onto her side, facing the window, away from me. I remove my underwear, spoon her. My boner parks itself in the crack of her ass. She cranes her head back, kisses me, grinds her ass against me.
I reach around to her crotch. She intercepts my hand before I make it there, directing it to her mouth instead. The diamond of her wedding ring winks at me as she sucks my finger. When she’s finished she puts my wet finger on one of her nipples, tracing little circles with it. She moans, says, “Get a condom.”
I grab a rubber off the nightstand. I start to roll it on, and Vera reaches back to finish the job. Then, still on her side, she guides me inside her.
Pumping away, I feel like a marionette. She’s pulling the strings; I’m moving to her whims. Dance, puppet! Dance!
Vera moans intermittently. Each one is soft, barely audible, like her parents are in the next room. She clenches up as I’m about to come. When I do, she shivers, says, “Mmm.” I assume she came, too.
She sighs, gets out of bed, gathers her clothes from the floor, beelines to the bathroom. I pull off the condom, search for something to wrap it in. She emerges from the bathroom fully dressed, a Wookiee being the only thing missing from her ensemble.
She picks up her purse, rifles through it. The room is still bathed in darkness so I have no idea how the hell she can see what she’s looking for. A second later she pulls out a slip of paper. She places it on the foot of the bed. “Call me sometime,” she says. “I had fun.” She hurries out of the room.
I drop the condom on the bed, reach for the paper. It’s got her name and number on it.
I sit back against the headboard, study the piece of paper. Vera’s handwriting is the nicest I’ve ever seen.
I feel a wetness against my leg. It’s the condom, leaking onto the bed. Yuck.
I stare at the rubber, all used and forgotten. “I know how you feel,” I say.
A couple days later I text Vera from my burner. I hear back immediately. We decide to meet at the Holiday Inn again. She texts me the room number, tells me to just come up.
I get to the hotel, wander up to the room, knock out “Shave and a Haircut” on the door. She opens up, greets me in nothing but a pink thong. This one appears to have a silky quality to it. I mean, I think it does. The shades are drawn again, so it’s tough to see.
Vera pulls me into the room and kisses me so hard our teeth click together. She pulls back, giggles, kisses me again.
Unbuttoning my pants, she leads me to the edge of the bed. She yanks my pants down to my ankles, taking my boxers with them, pushes me onto the bed. Leaning over the bed, she proceeds to give me a blowjob.
I’m close to coming when she stops and rolls a condom onto my dick.
She turns around, squats over me, pulls her underwear to the side, rides me reverse cowgirl-style, makes very little noise. Once again, it’s her show. I’m just the apparatus, so to speak.
Like our first time together, we finish simultaneously. And like the first time, she scurries to the bathroom immediately after, scooping up her clothes along the way.
I stare at the ceiling. I feel dizzy and disoriented, like I just fucked a tornado. Is that good? Bad?
Vera steps out of the bathroom fully clothed, throws her purse over her shoulder. Instead of making a speedy exit, she crosses to the window, flings the shades open. The afternoon sun spills into the room. I squint.
She takes a yellow elastic from her wrist, ties back some of her hair so that a small bun sits above a curtain of orangey curls. She narrows her eyes at me. A beat passes. “You want to get some coffee? I know a great place.”
Still staring at the ceiling, I say, “Sure.”
“Ohhhh shit,” Vera says. “They have strawberry millefeuille. If I get one, will you have some?”
We’re at St. Honoré Boulangerie, down the block from the hotel. Vera stares at the case of pastries next to the cashier.
“Um,” I say. “Meal what?”
“It’s a pastry, son.” She smiles, points to the case, to the cake-lookin’ thing with strawberries in it.
“Sure,” I say. “I’ll try some, I guess.”
“Alright,” she says to the cashier, “one strawberry millefeuille, one café au lait for me, and,” she turns to me, raises her eyebrows.
“Oh, uh,” I say. “Just a coffee, please. Black.”
“And two blackberry macarons, please.” She turns to me. “Trust me, you need to have one.”
I nod slowly.
The cashier punches keys on the register, gives us the total. I take out my wallet, produce a credit card.Vera makes a face. “Let’s pretend you didn’t just do that,” she says. “I got this.” She pays the cashier. We take our pastries and coffee to a table.
I sip my coffee, take a forkful of the millefeuille. It’s rich, creamy. Berry-y.
“Well?” she says.
I shrug. “Not bad.”
“Not bad?” she says. “It’s almost as good as what I had in Paris.”
“You live there or?”
“I studied abroad for a semester in college,” she says. “Ever been to France?”
I shake my head no. Amelia always wanted to go. I could never get away from work.
“So, um, where do you live?” she says. “Thought you said no personal stuff.”
“I just put that in there because other people had it in theirs,” she says. “I don’t actually care.”
“Ah,” I say. “I live in South Tabor.”
She smiles. “Oh wow, that’s not far from me,” she says. “I live in Sunnyside.”
“Oh. Cool. You, um.” I sip my coffee, clear my throat. “You do this a lot?” She raises an eyebrow. “Go for coffee with strangers, I mean.”
Her smile widens. “We’re hardly strangers now.”
“You know what I mean. Your husband know you do this?”
“My husband doesn’t know I do this because my husband is at work,” she says. “He’s always at work.” She stares into her mug for a moment, looks up. “And to answer your other question, I don’t do this very often.” She takes a bite of pastry, chews. “Mmm.” She concentrates on the millefeuille as she separates another morsel with her fork. “You ever been married?” It’s like she’s asking the pastry.
“Once,” I say. “She died.” Technically true; Amelia’s dead to me. Vera puts the pastry in her mouth, chews slowly. “Oh, I’m so sorry,” she says. “When’d she die?”
“A few months ago.” Again, not complete bullshit.
“Oh my god.” She puts her hand over mouth.
I pile on more details. I don’t know why. She had cancer. Breast cancer. Started as a lump, metastasized. Moved to her lungs. Then her brain. I do Susan G. Komen walks now. I quit while I’m ahead, ask her what kind of work her husband does.
Vera says her husband is in finance. Works 80- to 90-hour weeks most times. Comes home exhausted, barely acknowledges her when he flops into bed, sometimes still wearing his suit. He used to be in shape. Now he’s overweight and pasty, the byproduct of processed trans fats and fluorescent lighting.
I’m on the verge of blurting out that it’s not his fault, that he’s only trying to build a life for her, for them, for their children if they choose to have them. I’m on the verge of blurting out all of this because I was in finance, and Vera is describing what led to the decline of my marriage. But I stay quiet, play the role of the sensitive widower.
I look at my watch, tell Vera that I have to get going, that I’m “watching my buddy’s dog and need to let her out.” A half-lie – Bella does need to go out. Truth is, I’m feeling ill. Maybe it’s the pastry.
“Thanks for the coffee and the meal thing,” I say. “See you ‘round.”
Driving home, my stomach does a floor routine, bouncing and flipping. I open my window. Cool air rushes in.
I quit my job after Amelia and I split. Didn’t see the point in working that hard if I wasn’t building a life with somebody. I became a consultant instead. Pay isn’t as good, but the hours are much more tolerable. Wonder if Vera or her husband knows that’s an option. If I were a nice guy, I’d drop the charade, help her save her marriage. Some sensitive widower I am.
I curse myself for asking about Vera’s marriage. “No questions about personal life.” Should’ve abided by that.
I get home, walk Bella, my stomach having settled. My pocket vibrates. I take out the burner.
It’s a text. From Vera. You left your macaron 🙂
I ignore it, turn the phone off.
A week later I’m texting with Florist about the pee fetish girl: did he meet her? Was it weird?
Instead of saying, “Fuck no, it was awesome!” he starts telling me about her interests – she likes to make mosaics with pieces of sea glass; her job – she works at a zoo in the small mammal exhibit; her favorite food – Indian is first, Greek is a close second; and so on.
Wait. Is he in love?
“And holy fuck,” he adds, “girl knows how to suck a dick.”
Yup. Love alright.
Ever been the only single person at a wedding? That’s how this feels.
It’s enough to make me flip on the burner.
Vera’s texted only two more times since the one a week ago. I start to punch out a response but give up and call instead.
She asks do I want to come over. As in to her place. My stomach lurches at the idea of seeing The House of the Unraveling Marriage, so I ignore the suggestion, tell her to meet me at the hotel in an hour if she wants to see me. She agrees.
I attack her when she gets to the room. I’m like early man, tearing at her clothes. She ain’t in charge this time; I am.
The room is dark because I closed the shades. I still don’t understand why the room has to be pitch black, but whatever, I can compromise. She’d find a way to close them anyway.
I get almost every stitch of clothing off her and move in to kiss her when she pulls away. She walks over to the bed, takes off her underwear, bends over. I remove my clothes as I stomp over.
It hits me: I’m doing what she wants me to do, she’s still calling the shots. I wanted to face her, but she won’t let me have my way. I pump away, grunting through gritted teeth.
Most women would be disgusted, stop me, call me an animal. Not Vera. She pushes back, making those faint “uhh uhh” sounds.
We finish. I collapse onto her, our faces buried in the bedspread. Vera elbows me off her. I don’t fight it. What’s the point, why pretend I have even a modicum of control.
Wait. Fuck that.
I grab her wrist when she starts for the bathroom. I try to pull her back to the bed, but it’s no use. She twists away, grabbing her underwear off the floor. It’s a surprise when she stops short and puts them on, disregarding the bathroom entirely. Her back is still turned to me.
Vera goes around to the other side of the bed, pulls the comforter down, gets in. She props herself up on an elbow, smiles. “Bad day?” she says.
“Something like that.” I’m a furnace so I stay on top of the comforter.
“Wanna talk about it?” She runs her hand through my hair, leans over, kisses my forehead.
My stomach throws itself against my ribcage. Guess it wasn’t the French pastry after all; my body is rejecting Vera. I exhale. “I can’t do this anymore.” Sweat pops out on my nose. “You need to fix your marriage.”
Vera sits up. “But I—“
I put up a hand. “Save it.”
I get up, but my stomach tries to stay behind. I put a hand against the wall to steady myself as I grab my boxers off the floor. “Your husband is trying build a life for you guys.” I pull them on and reach for my pants and shirt. “That’s why he works so hard.” I wriggle into my pants. “So be a big girl and grow up.” I tug my shirt over my head. “Seeya.” I snag my shoes on the way out the door, put them on in the elevator.
When I get to the lobby, I snap the burner in half, toss it in the trashcan. Then I vomit into it.
I’m at the Mount Tabor Dog Park with Bella a few days later. The sun is shining. My life still blows, but my conscience is clear.
Things could be worse.
I’m sitting on a bench, watching Bella sniff a schnauzer’s ass. I feel a tap on my shoulder. I look up. It’s Vera.
Things are worse.
“Hey.” She points at the vacant spot next to me. “Mind if I sit?”
I turn my attention back to Bella. She’s moved on to the ass of a corgi. I shrug.
She sits. “So.”
“So.” The diamond in her ring catches the light, redirects it into my eye. Blinded by her love. Fitting.
Vera jerks her chin at the canines. “You still watching your friend’s dog?”
“Yeah,” I say. “He travels a lot. For work.”
“Which one is yours?” she says. “Or his. Whatever.”
“Brown mutt.” I point at Bella. “Sniffing the dachshund’s ass.” I’ll never figure out Bella’s fascination with small dogs.
She smiles. “Cute.” Her smile fades. “Haven’t heard from you.”
“Lost my phone.”
“You could’ve emailed me.”
“How’s your marriage?” My eyes move to her ring and then to her. “I assume you’re still married.”
Vera considers her ring, twists it this way and that. “Oh,” she says. “Yeah. Um. He’s. I mean, we’re.” She sighs. “It’s complicated.”
“Right.” I stand, whistle for Bella. She trots over, leaving the ass of a rat terrier in her wake. I clip the leash to Bella’s collar. She sniffs Vera’s knee as Vera scratches behind her ear. I give the leash a gentle tug. “C’mon, Bell.” To Vera, I say, “Bye.”
A little later, I’m home, spread out on the futon.
Bella sits beside me, gnaws on a dried chicken strip. It was a treat for sniffing so many tiny canine asses. Pretty sure she set a record this time.
The mutt takes her attention away from the strip, looks toward the door. A second later there’s a knock.
I answer the door. It’s Vera.
“Uh,” I say. “How did you—“
“Followed you home from the park,” she says. “Gotta use your bathroom.” She grabs my hand. “Show me where it is.”
I lead her to the bathroom. She flicks on the light, stands in front of the toilet.
She takes off her wedding ring, holds it up. “See this?” She drops it in the toilet, flushes it. “Got that for thirty bucks at Walmart.” She turns off the light, steps out into the hallway. “I’m not married.”
My mouth hangs open, an aircraft carrier for flies.
“I’ve never been married,” she says. “All that stuff about finance? Got that from my brother, he’s an investment banker. I described him.”
I laugh.
I laugh because I’m relieved. Because the situation is nothing if not amusing. Because only on Craigslist can you find a married woman who wants to have an affair who isn’t actually married.
I laugh because what the fuck else can I do?
“You’re not mad?” she says.
I smile. “No.”
I kiss her, lead her to the futon. My hand slips under her shirt, glides across her stomach.
Trembling, she exhales.
I pull off her shirt, kiss her chest, unbutton her jeans. Her hands gently pull mine away. She turns around, drops her pants. Her underwear hugs the cheeks of her round ass.
I press my lips to her freckled shoulder, turn her around. “Not this time,” I say. Vera hangs her head. “I can’t.”
“Sure you can.” A tear drips down her face, briefly pools in one of her acne scars before moving along. “What’s wrong?”
“You don’t know me.” She clasps her hands in front of her.
“You don’t know me, either,” I say. “So let’s start over.”
I move to kiss her, but she puts her hand out. I stop.
She shakes her head. “Don’t.” Her hands move to the waistband of her underwear. “You need to see something first.”
I nod. Her panties drop to the ground.
Buried in a small thatch of ginger curls is a tiny penis. Like, baby tiny. An inch and a half at most. It’s where her clit should be. Testicles and scrotum not included.
“I’m intersex.” She crosses her arms over her bare stomach, hugs herself. Her head droops. Curls fall in her face.
Intersex. Some people might define Vera as a hermaphrodite, but a hermaphrodite has full sets of both male and female genitalia. A real deal human hermaphrodite is extremely rare. Like, almost never happens. Intersexuals are more common, and their reproductive organs are usually…mixed. Like, one ovary and one testicle, stuff like that.
I know this because Amelia knows this. She told me all about intersex folks. Because Amelia knows about all that stuff. Because Amelia is transgender. Before she and I got together, she was Patrick.
So Vera’s little testicle-free penis? I think it’s cute.
I drop to my knees, bury my face between her legs, show her just how cute I think it is. Next thing I know, we’re a sweaty tangle of limbs and heavy panting.
She becomes a different animal. She doesn’t make the little coquettish moans I’m used to; her cries of exultation are accompanied by the occasional whimper.
We go and go ‘til we’re sore and used up. Gooey and slippery, we puddle together, her arm flung across my chest, my hand in hers.
I breathe in her warm funk, close my eyes.
The next morning I smell waffles. The smell takes me back to Amelia, our house, our marriage. A wave of nausea sucker punches me, but it passes.
Vera isn’t in bed, but her clothes are still scattered around the room. I get up, pull on a t-shirt, a pair of boxers.
I shuffle into the kitchen. Bella scampers in behind me.
The waffle iron is tucked into a corner. Vera is at the stove, gripping the handle of a frying pan. A mixing bowl sits next to the cooktop.
She’s wearing the shirt she tore off me the night before. It hangs open a bit. Her penis peeks out at me.
In one motion, she maneuvers a spatula into the pan, gives the pancake inside a quick flip.
I come up behind her, wrap my arms around her waist, bury my face in her curls. They smell like apples.
“Pancakes, huh?” I say.
“Saw the waffle iron,” she says. “Thought you’d like something different.”
I chuckle and put my chin on her shoulder. “My wife isn’t dead,” I say. “She’s alive and lives in Clackamas. We got divorced a few months ago.” Bella noses around Vera’s knees like she did the day before. “And I’m not dog sitting. Bella’s mine.”
“I know.” She pats my hands. “You’re a terrible liar.”